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Authors: Kate Forsyth
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tight.”
“Had to be tight. Fall off if no‘ tight.”
“So ye tied them yourself? You tied yourself on the horse?”
After a long frowning moment, she nodded.
He said no more, kneeling in the straw before her and lifting up first one hand, then the other, turning them to examine the lacerated flesh. Her fingernails were torn and jagged and black with dirt, but the hands themselves were slender and long-fingered, with callouses he recognized as being caused by drawing back the string of a bow. He remembered the bow and quiver of roughly hewn arrows that had been tied on to her back, and felt his curiosity grow.
Very gently he applied the soothing cream and bandaged her wrists. Then he gathered up all her hair and swept it over her shoulder, smoothing it away from her brow so he could look at the wound on her temple. She sat quietly, almost as if spellbound, as he washed away the encrusted blood, and anointed the wound with his mother’s salve.
“It is no‘ too bad,” he said softly. “Head wounds often bleed a lot. Ye may have a headache for a day or two, but naught more serious. I’ll no’ bandage it, it’s only a scrape and the air will do it good.”
She said nothing, just gazed at him with her dark brows drawn together over her eyes, though more in puzzlement than anger. With the mud and blood washed from her face, he was able to see her clearly for the first time. She had a long, thin face with bony temples and a patrician nose. Her cheekbones were so high there were little hollows beneath. Her mouth was soft and full-lipped with a deep indentation in the upper lip. It gave her a vulnerable air, at odds with the strength of the rest of her features. As he stared at her, her mouth quirked and set itself firmly. Lewen looked away quickly.
He moved back a little, taking up one of her feet and lifting an eyebrow in query. She tilted her head, then gave a little shrug and nodded. Gently he drew off the long, leather boots, and took her bare ankle in one hand, examining the bruised and swollen flesh carefully. “The boots were some protection, at least,” he said. “Let me wash your feet clean and put some arnica cream on, and then ye’ll be more comfortable.”
She acquiesced silently. He washed her feet carefully, noting the hard soles and splayed toes of someone who customarily went barefoot, and the new red patches where the boots had rubbed skin not used to confinement. He had just finished massaging in the cream when he sensed someone watching and looked up. His mother stood just beyond the stable door, a pile of blankets in one arm, a basket in the other hand. She was watching them with a grave expression on her face. Lewen flushed but Lilanthe made no comment, limping in and putting her burdens down near her son, who lifted the girl’s feet off his lap so that he could turn and reach to pick them up.
“I brought her a nightgown and some blankets,” Lilanthe said with the faintest trace of coolness in her voice. “And there’s some vegetable broth, and some new bread, and a slice of the whortleberry pie that Merry and I made this afternoon.”
Lewen was hot and uncomfortable in his skin. He found it hard to meet his mother’s clear gaze. He busied himself winding up the unused bandages and tidying up the salves while the girl fell upon the soup and bread like a wild animal.
“Your supper is waiting for ye, when ye’re ready,” Lilanthe said. “Do no‘ be long, laddie. It’s almost time for Merry to go to bed and she’s eager to see ye, on your last night home with just us.”
Lewen bit his lip in chagrin. “I’ll no‘ be long, Mam. I’ll just see her settled.”
Lilanthe nodded and shook out some warm blankets, then piled her basket high with her healing salves and bandages. “Sleep well, lassie,” she said gently to the girl, who looked up briefly from her soup before lowering her face to the bowl again. “Do no‘ fear. Ye are safe here. This house and garden are well
“Had to be tight. Fall off if no‘ tight.”
“So ye tied them yourself? You tied yourself on the horse?”
After a long frowning moment, she nodded.
He said no more, kneeling in the straw before her and lifting up first one hand, then the other, turning them to examine the lacerated flesh. Her fingernails were torn and jagged and black with dirt, but the hands themselves were slender and long-fingered, with callouses he recognized as being caused by drawing back the string of a bow. He remembered the bow and quiver of roughly hewn arrows that had been tied on to her back, and felt his curiosity grow.
Very gently he applied the soothing cream and bandaged her wrists. Then he gathered up all her hair and swept it over her shoulder, smoothing it away from her brow so he could look at the wound on her temple. She sat quietly, almost as if spellbound, as he washed away the encrusted blood, and anointed the wound with his mother’s salve.
“It is no‘ too bad,” he said softly. “Head wounds often bleed a lot. Ye may have a headache for a day or two, but naught more serious. I’ll no’ bandage it, it’s only a scrape and the air will do it good.”
She said nothing, just gazed at him with her dark brows drawn together over her eyes, though more in puzzlement than anger. With the mud and blood washed from her face, he was able to see her clearly for the first time. She had a long, thin face with bony temples and a patrician nose. Her cheekbones were so high there were little hollows beneath. Her mouth was soft and full-lipped with a deep indentation in the upper lip. It gave her a vulnerable air, at odds with the strength of the rest of her features. As he stared at her, her mouth quirked and set itself firmly. Lewen looked away quickly.
He moved back a little, taking up one of her feet and lifting an eyebrow in query. She tilted her head, then gave a little shrug and nodded. Gently he drew off the long, leather boots, and took her bare ankle in one hand, examining the bruised and swollen flesh carefully. “The boots were some protection, at least,” he said. “Let me wash your feet clean and put some arnica cream on, and then ye’ll be more comfortable.”
She acquiesced silently. He washed her feet carefully, noting the hard soles and splayed toes of someone who customarily went barefoot, and the new red patches where the boots had rubbed skin not used to confinement. He had just finished massaging in the cream when he sensed someone watching and looked up. His mother stood just beyond the stable door, a pile of blankets in one arm, a basket in the other hand. She was watching them with a grave expression on her face. Lewen flushed but Lilanthe made no comment, limping in and putting her burdens down near her son, who lifted the girl’s feet off his lap so that he could turn and reach to pick them up.
“I brought her a nightgown and some blankets,” Lilanthe said with the faintest trace of coolness in her voice. “And there’s some vegetable broth, and some new bread, and a slice of the whortleberry pie that Merry and I made this afternoon.”
Lewen was hot and uncomfortable in his skin. He found it hard to meet his mother’s clear gaze. He busied himself winding up the unused bandages and tidying up the salves while the girl fell upon the soup and bread like a wild animal.
“Your supper is waiting for ye, when ye’re ready,” Lilanthe said. “Do no‘ be long, laddie. It’s almost time for Merry to go to bed and she’s eager to see ye, on your last night home with just us.”
Lewen bit his lip in chagrin. “I’ll no‘ be long, Mam. I’ll just see her settled.”
Lilanthe nodded and shook out some warm blankets, then piled her basket high with her healing salves and bandages. “Sleep well, lassie,” she said gently to the girl, who looked up briefly from her soup before lowering her face to the bowl again. “Do no‘ fear. Ye are safe here. This house and garden are well
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